Don't Panic
by Sparky Dorian
Summary: In which Steve doesn't leave any tenacity for the rest of the world, Sam is a vault of secrets, and Bucky's new mission isn't the one that he expected. The road to tomorrow can be a long one, but at least they're on it.
1. Aftermath

_Hello everyone! So I have gathered that I am not alone in being _so _far from over Cap 2... I'm glad to have the company, at least. _

_Bucky's situation is a rough one. I've read a lot of awesome fic that's pretty grim, and probably pretty realistic. _

_However, I am and always will be an optimist. While this isn't going to be easy, it's going to be hopeful. I believe in these guys, and I want to see them happy at some point (preferably sooner rather than later). _

_I welcome feedback of any kind and hope you enjoy!_

* * *

_Project: Winter Soldier_

_Asset Status: Active_

_Current Mission(s): Eliminate Captain America; Maintain Helicarriers_

_Mission Status: In progress_

_Asset Capacity: 44%_

_Time Since Last Cryostasis: 4 Days_

_Next Mission Report: Pierce, Alexander; 2.6 hours_

* * *

Rogers falls.

Down, down, down, through the open air beneath the helicarrier.

He watches.

Flying shrapnel stings his face and ragged breaths sting his chest; he watches. Frozen in place. The Mission is complete. Will be complete. Can be complete? If he remains still, he will be finished. It will be the end-

I'm with you till the end of the line.

Those words. He hears an echo of them in his own voice. Tendrils, incomprehensible, wispy, creep forward through his mind, taunting him, hurting him. He never said them. Did he?

Rogers hits the water.

He sinks.

He does not come back up.

The Soldier's flesh fingers tremble. His metal fingers dig into the torn aircraft hard enough to leave grooves. Stop. Stay. Stay, do not move, do not think. Complete the Mission.

Heart pounding, he feels the Mission under his hands. Tense, but not struggling. Refusing to fight back. Bleeding through his uniform. The blue, blue eyes filled with something the Soldier could not read.

He knew him.

He _knows_ him.

Far below, the water settles still again, and Rogers is no more.

The Soldier jumps.

Falls.

Immediately his head begins to pound, pain screaming through his skull. The rushing wind turns cold and sharp. A flash of snowy mountains surrounds him, bringing pain, then it is gone. He hits the water hard, but he is ready.

The depths are murky, chilly, filling with debris. The Soldier propels himself downward toward the sinking, still form of his Mission. Blood hangs in the water around him like a cloud, his skin going pale. He will die in only moments, left alone. It is what the Soldier's purpose demands. He has already failed to kill the Mission by his own two hands. Doing it now by inaction will suffice.

But instead, he takes hold of the limp hand and pulls.

Hunks of metal and singed framework plunge into the water around them. The Soldier yanks his Mission closer and steers him through it. His vision blurs grey around the edges, his flesh arm quickly going numb with pain. His teeth clench, tight, and he closes himself off from it. It is nothing worse than what he has suffered at Their hands, but it hurts. Broken, fractured; They will punish him for allowing it to happen, before repairing it. He can feel the loose bones inside his skin, rubbing against raw nerve endings.

He blocks it fully and swims. Kicking his legs as they leave a trail of blood behind.

When his head finally breaks the surface, he gasps for breath. Panting, lungs stinging, he moves toward the shore. He drags the Mission like a corpse-he looks like a corpse, limp like one, too. At last they are out of the river. The Soldier lets him fall. He's soaked, dripping and shivering with adrenaline. Everything in him shouts orders to kill and return to his handlers.

"No." The word in this context is foreign. He has no right to deny anything, to feel anything, to think anything. He flinches in anticipation of a strike. But he is alone, and it doesn't come.

Slowly, watching the Mission out of the corners of his eyes, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a digital flare.

He shoves his target's heavy, drenched arm over one of the bleeding gunshot wounds in a semblance of applying pressure. His chest squeezes and he allows himself one moment, just one, to search the Mission's face for anything familiar.

He finds no memory, but there is something there_. _

The sensation is hollow and haunting, without anything to judge it by. But still he knows, he _knows_ that this is someone he once knew.

"Do svidaniya," he mutters, and sets off the flare, runs.

He knows that Hydra will detect it.

But SHIELD will find it first.

* * *

Steve hears the world before he feels it.

The rattling of an air conditioner. A light song in the background of humming machines, and a low steady beep. Footsteps echo in the distance, purposeful and quick. Deep breathing, barely audible, exhales in a steady rhythm beside him.

Slowly, he makes himself open his eyes.

The walls are clean and white. Everything smells sterile, not like much of anything. For a moment, his mind is blank and he doesn't know where he is-how he got here. It reminds him of when he woke up in the SHIELD facility, except that was fake, and this is real.

The pain is too tangible for it to be anything else.

"On your left," he hears, and glances over. His eyes hurt, moving them makes his head ache.

But he breaks into a smile.

"Sam."

"You look like crap, Cap," Sam says, even as every inch of him loosens with relief.

"Nice rhyming," Steve murmurs, "you take long to think that one up?"

"Well I did have some free time."

Steve opens and closes his hand experimentally. They have him on something strong, strong enough to beat his heightened metabolism. It's obvious in the tingling in his fingertips and the fact that he's able to breathe and move despite having four bullet holes punched through his torso. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good, man," Sam says, leaning back in his chair. "Only thing I broke was my wings, and those can be fixed."

"Stark could help," Steve says absently. He shifts against the pillow and winces as it tugs at something on his stomach. Stitches, maybe. "What about Natasha and Fury?"

"They're fine too." Sam's mouth twists. "You got the worst of it now, I think. What happened up there?"

"Well," Steve says, wry, "he didn't kill me."

Sam scowls. "He came pretty dang close."

Steve breathes out. Memories trickle in, and the weight of everything settles back onto his ribcage. He lets his head sink down and rubs the rough sheet between his fingers to anchor himself in the here and now.

"Yeah," he admits. "He did. But... He didn't go through with it." Empty air and the sickening pull of gravity flood his mind, but he shakes it off. "I fell from the helicarrier." His eyes turn toward Sam without moving his head. "Which one of you fished me out this time?"

Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "None of us did. We assumed you got yourself to the shore before you blacked out." A frown curls his mouth downward and he leans his elbows onto his knees. "You didn't?"

Confusion sweeps through Steve's chest. "No. I don't even remember hitting the water." A thought hits him like a shock and he almost bolts to sit up-but his aching muscles cut him off. "Bucky."

"What?" Sam shakes his head. "No way, man."

"It had to be him," Steve insists. "There was no one else there, and I know _I _didn't save myself." Something like hope bubbles up in his stomach. It's dangerous, but he doesn't want to push it away. "That means something, right?"

The air drops, and Sam sighs. Steve knows what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth. Sees it in the creasing of his forehead and the twitch in his fingers. "Look, I-"

Steve cuts him off, firm. "He's in there, Sam. I know he is. I have to find him."

He _owes_ Bucky.

Owes him a debt that goes back over eighty years now. He owes him his life, his happiness, and most of all, he owes Bucky for letting him fall the first time.

Sam sighs and rubs a hand over his face. There isn't any pity in his eyes, and for that, Steve's grateful. "You're really serious about doing this."

"I won't let him down again," Steve says, quiet. "I can't."

"So you're going after him?"

Steve nods. "As soon as I can."

A crooked grin springs onto his new friend's face, and Sam reaches out to bump his bruised fist. "Then count me in."

* * *

The Soldier walks as far as he can force himself, and the city changes around him. Smaller and older now, the neon billboards are replaced by peeling signs. Overhead, the sun moves in the sky, slowly dipping lower, lower, lower, and painting the horizon orange and red.

When his designated report time arrives, he freezes.

The tightness (_fear) _rising in his chest compounds with his four broken ribs and he struggles to gasp for a breath. His metal hand clenches into a fist (his other hand is limp and numb at his side) and he puts his back against a hard alley wall.

He has never outright ignored or disobeyed an order. Not that he remembers, not until today, and now he has done it twice.

His consequence may be the white coats, to play with his mind and body and punish him that way. It may be the men in black, who take their pleasure in beating him into the ground.

Or perhaps, for this, it will be something worse.

A shudder runs up his spine and he fails to make himself stand. No one is present. From here, he can see both ends of the alley, and looping clotheslines between windows give him some protection from overhead surveillance.

He intends to remain still for only a moment (he is Hydra's asset, he does not get to decide when to rest) and take stock of himself.

But before he can do anything to stop it, his vision fades to grey and the world goes silent.

* * *

Whispering voices register with his subconscious and he is awake in an instant.

He is on his feet before his eyes are even open; his shoulder has swollen into something tender and stiff, something he will have to evaluate, but he holds up his metal arm and surveys the alley. Several sets of feet have just scuffed their way around the corner, already out of sight.

The Soldier takes inventory of his surroundings again, and nothing has changed.

Nothing save the presence of a small clear bag and a pile of crumpled bills and coins.

Hydra's warnings beat a staccato through his mind. Explosives can come in the smallest of packages, especially now. He edges away, eases a thin, rusted pole from behind a dumpster, and pokes at the clear bag.

Nothing happens.

He repeats the testing until he is satisfied.

His mouth tugs downward and he returns to the strange offering, crouching down. The coins placed atop the bills clink against his metal fingers, and the bills are thin and dull with use. Currencies of all types are stored in his mind. American bills are no exception, and he knows without trying that these total twenty dollars and forty-two cents.

Had they dropped it? There is no sign of them returning to search for anything lost.

For the moment, he drops it back onto the damp, cracked concrete and turns his attention to the bag.

The material is transparent and crinkles when he touches it. Within, there are three pyramid-shaped objects wrapped in silver foil. A piece of decorative metal twists around the top of the bag and a small, yellow tag sticks out at an angle.

_Random Acts of Kindness: Pass it On! _

The Soldier's eyes narrow. Kindness is not an English word he has a definition for, nor can he find a counterpart in any other language. It could be something sinister. Before the people can come back and delay him with trouble, he pockets the currency and rips the tag off of the package, flipping it over.

An address for _Central Christian Church_ adorns the back, along with a smaller printed sentence that he does not find useful (_a scripture_).

Since he has awoken, his throat and mouth have become gritty and dry, his limbs growing heavier. It is nothing that he will allow as a hindrance. He must move on.

The tag finds its way into his pocket, too; for research, he decides, and spares one more glance at the bag on the ground before slipping away into the grey-black early morning.


	2. Popping Tags (and Pain Pills)

_In this chapter: Steve is dreadfully stubborn, Sam's a great friend, and Bucky is lost. Also, flashbacks._

_To everyone who's read, thank you! To everyone who has reviewed, thank you very much. I appreciate all of you a lot! You motivate me to write much faster. _

_To the reviewer to said the opening reminded them of Person of Interest: I haven't ever seen that show, but thank you for the comment!_

_And finally, I would love to hear your thoughts on how I'm writing the POVs. They're very different characters and I really want to get Bucky's thought process/headspace right. _

_Thanks again and enjoy!_

* * *

_Project: Winter Soldier_

_Asset Status: Active_

_Current Mission: Eliminate Captain America_

_Mission Status: Incomplete_

_Asset Capacity: 30%_

_Time Since Last Cryostasis: 5 Days_

_Next Mission Report: Unknown_

* * *

The Soldier stops in an empty concrete square, behind an empty building, and sets his arm against the brick wall.

He bites down, hard, on the hilt of one of his knives.

His arm is a hindrance and cannot be allowed to remain immobile. The medical training that Hydra has given him remains despite the memory wipes, and he knows how to fix dislocations. He has done it before. Practiced on others and on himself, after having his nonmetal shoulder dislocated for experience.

The anticipation of pain makes the back of his neck tingle. It is a useless reaction that he will have to report to his handlers-if he goes back.

In his mind he counts backward from five and manoeuvres himself into the proper position.

Три... два... один.

He twists and pushes and his joint slots back into place.

The crack echoes off the concrete, and his scream never leaves his throat.

* * *

Steve leans heavily into Sam, fighting with each step not to drag his feet across the scuffed linoleum floor.

"Mr. Rogers, I really don't think you ought to leave yet," the nurse says, her voice as nervous as her fluttering hands. She walks with them, curls springing from a tight bun. "The doctors haven't cleared you for release, and you still have-"

"Thank you, ma'am," Steve cuts in, "I appreciate everything. You'd better go check on the guy in room 102, he didn't sound so good when we walked by."

The nurse steps into their path, holding out his chart as physical proof of his condition. "But Mr. Rogers, you can't just-"

"Good evening, ma'am," Steve says.

The sliding doors hiss open automatically when they approach, and Sam eyes him sideways as he sucks in a breath. "You good?"

Steve's voice is tight. "Yep."

He's running short on oxygen, holding himself tense and contained. The last meds they'd given him have worn off well and truly now. The lack of crippling pain, he'd liked, but it isn't worth the mental fog he put it in. He can't afford to be anything less than his best.

"My car's parked down there." Sam points across the crowded parking lot to the covered area, using his arm to shield them both against the blinding yellow sunlight. He casts Steve another look. "You wanna sit here while I go get it?"

They're standing in front of a bench, engraved with the names of hospital donors, and vacant save for a crumpled newspaper. Steve's legs feel like old soccer socks filled with sand; they're loose and heavy and uncooperative, but the bench is too exposed and he doesn't want to waste any time.

"No," he says, and firms his voice when Sam's eyebrows go up. "I've... walked away after plenty of fights in my time. Doing it again won't-kill me."

Worry tightens the corners of Sam's mouth and the line between his forehead deepens to a crease, but he nods once, and leads/stumbles with Steve through the parking lot.

The pain in his torso is white-hot and searing, not to mention the rest of him. Even his teeth hurt-possibly from the clenching he's been doing since he first woke up, possibly from the fight-but the only thing he can think about is Bucky.

Believing him to be dead had been painful. Like somebody had ripped his heart out and shoved it into an icebox before giving it back. It had been a cold, heavy, numb sort of ache.

But this? This is worse.

It's hot and leaden in the top of his stomach and the back of his throat, a knife-sharp thought stuck in his mind. He won't stop until he fixes it. He can't.

"You know," Sam says, his muscles tense but his voice easy, "when you say stuff like _in my time_, it makes you sound pretty dang old."

A breathless laugh escapes Steve before he realizes it. It stretches his lungs too far and hurts, but in a way that makes something small in his chest uncurl. "Didn't anyone ever tell you to respect your elders?"

Sam gives a slanting grin. "Sorry, gramps. Here, lemme get the door for you."

Steve collapses into the passenger seat. The echoing slam of the door thuds in his chest, and he lets his head fall back. Breathes in, breathes out.

Before Sam even sits down all the way, he flicks the radio on to an oldies station (it's strange to think that songs that came out fifty and sixty years after his birth are called _oldies_) and slides on his sunglasses. The engine hums as they pull out smoothly and they're on the road before any orderlies can come track them down.

"So I was thinking-"

Sam cuts him off. "When we get back to my place we can make a plan. Right now you need to rest, man. That nurse was right, and you still look like crap."

"And yet... you helped me get out."

The driver's side window eases down and a cool breeze floats in, easing some of the nausea that's chased Steve all the way from the hospital room.

"Yeah, well," Sam shrugs. "If I hadn't helped you, you woulda done it anyway and passed out ten feet outside the front door. And then I would've had to drag your sorry butt out of the gutter. This way's a lot easier."

They round a corner and Steve gasps in enough air to speak again.

"Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

* * *

The moon is high overhead as the Soldier makes his way through the fringes of the city. It is a thin sliver, hanging between two clouds. He is aware, dimly, that it changes shape, though the reasons for this escape him. He does not think he has ever been out of cryo long enough to see it pass through an entire cycle.

But that is irrelevant.

More of the city's residents are out than would be ideal. Shadows conceal his face and dim the glint of his metal arm, but he does not look like other humans. If he is to continue evading Hydra and his handlers, he must at least try.

Footsteps behind him send him onto alert, and he sinks deeper into the shade of an alley as a pair of young women pass. He tenses, eyes narrow as they pass.

"Come on, we've got to hurry back. Your mom's going to freak out if you're late, with everything that's going on."

"My mom would freak out anyway."

"Yeah, but-"

They fade out of sight and the Soldier steps back into his path. He has no destination, but he cannot remain still. If he does, the blackness might overtake him again, and he must not allow himself to become vulnerable.

A window across the street catches his gaze. _Thrift Shop_ _and Consignment, _is listed on the sign. He finds that reading so much English feels unexpectedly familiar, like expecting thin air and finding a solid step instead.

The words are definable individually but have no significance together. Still, an assortment of inconspicuous clothing hangs on display.

It will suffice.

He gives himself a new directive, to obtain suitable clothing.

His eyes find all possible threats, escape routes, vantage points, as he crosses the street and goes around the building. Letting himself in is no more trouble than simply opening the door would be. No one is around to see him, and he slips inside.

A soft jingle announces his entrance.

The smell is something he recognizes but cannot place. It is fresh and faintly sharp, and hangs on the clothing of some of his handlers' assistants. (_Detergent.)_

He flicks on a single light, a flickering lamp in the corner, and looks around.

The clothing seems to be arranged by function and color. He turns away from the racks that contain styles he has seen women in since he has been unfrozen, and stops in front of the mens'. Pants are not difficult to locate. They are made of a somewhat rough material of adequate durability. He selects a dark blue; dark and drab colors do not attract as much attention. So his handlers say. He does not consider color more than is necessary to his missions.

He stands longer in front of the shirts. Sizing of clothing has never been his concern, and though he is aware of his exact dimensions, the letters _S, M, and L_ do not seem to correlate.

Lifting his flesh arm still hurts, but he does it anyway. Removes a blue shirt with stiff fingers and holds it up to himself.

A memory knocks the breath out of his chest.

_Between the aisles of clothing stands a young blonde boy, thin and sickly, standing in a way that indicates pain. He has on a thick jacket that is too large in the shoulders. His pale fingers finger the edges of the sleeves, and he looks up. _

_ "Are you sure you want me to have this, Buck? It's awful nice, and there's a storm comin'." _

_ "I'm sure." Another boy emerges from behind the next rack of clothing behind the Soldier. Taller than the first. Dark-haired. A lofty air that is put on for the moment. "It's gettin' too small for me anyway. I'll just rip up the seams, so what's the point?"_

_ The blonde boy shifts his (insubstantial) weight from one foot to another. "But you only got it a couple months ago. Dontcha think you-" A cough shoots out of him, wet and deep and followed by more. He doubles over and trembles._

_ The dark-haired boy's face tightens, but he smooths it out before the smaller one looks up again. _

_ "Come off it, Stevie. I already made up my mind and I ain't takin' it back. 'sides, don't you think this is a much better color on me?" The dark-haired boy holds up one of the used jackets. It's dark blue, worn and thin at the elbows. _

_ "Bucky..." _

_ "What? I think it's great." _

_ The blonde boy set his shoulders. "Look, I really don't-"_

_ "C'mon, we gotta get home." The taller boy slings an arm around the smaller one's neck and tugs him toward the counter. "Quit being such a punk." _

_ The blonde boy mutters his response with a sense of habit. "Jerk." _

He gasps for air when he surfaces, his mind screaming with pain. It feels wrong, something set off-kilter, but _right_.

Bucky. His Mission had called him by that name.

Who _is_ Bucky?

The clothing he is holding is acceptable and he changes in a small room behind a curtain. He finds his fingers clumsy as he feeds the small shirt buttons into their holes-he cannot recall ever doing this before.

His old clothes thud into the bottom of a trash can. Any useful equipment that _can _still be concealed on his person has been, and he tucks a front-brimmed hat onto his head.

A single glove lays in a big marked _70% off_ and he slips it on.

No glimpse of Hydra's arm should be visible, now.

The Soldier begins to leave, is only paces from the door when a voice in his mind tugs him back.

It's small and reedy, should sound weak but manages to hold steel. _"They're tryin' to survive as hard as we are, Buck."_

_ "I'm pretty sure we're tryin' harder." _

_ "Still, we can't steal from 'em." _

The tags he'd ripped off had totalled ten dollars. The currency he fishes out is heavy in his hand. It can be exchanged for a multitude of things. He should conserve it, but instead he tosses two crumpled five dollar bills onto the counter.

This time he does exit, shutting off the lights.

His jaw sets to one side.

The current directive is complete; he requires a new one, but none come to mind. And he has half as much currency at his disposal as he did previous to completing this task.

Still, the voice in his head has not spoken again.

He's glad. If it tells him to do something, he doesn't think he can make himself say no.


	3. Turnabout

_Short chapter today. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed! I will do my best to respond to everyone. _

_Other languages will mainly be in italics in English. I find it easier to read that way, but if anyone feels otherwise, let me know. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_Project: Winter Soldier_

_Asset Status: Active_

_Current Mission: Gather intel on James Buchanan Barnes _

_Mission Status: In progress_

_Asset Capacity: 24%_

_Time Since Last Cryostasis: 6 Days_

_Next Mission Report: Unknown_

* * *

He assigns himself a mission.

When he does so, a sense of wrongdoing collides so hard with his chest that he has to stop in an alley and press his hands against the wall. Assignments are not his responsibility. He does not have choices, thoughts, opinions; is not possessed of something so human as desires and wants. They are for others, not him.

And yet, he _wants_ to know more.

He needs to. Hydra knows. They must know. They were the ones who saved him and trained him, and he has no recollection of anything before them (_except Steve)_ so logically, they would know about where he was _before_.

But something tells him that when (_if)_ he goes back, he will not receive answers to his questions. He will only be punished and wiped.

And then everything will be dark and cold cold cold.

He does not want that. Not yet.

Now, he finds, that since he has started to want things, he cannot stop. Perhaps this is why his handlers did not allow it. It proves an irritating distraction that is more difficult to block out than most.

He wants information. He wants the heaviness in his limbs and eyelids to be gone. He wants the threat of capture to cease. He wants his hair to stop sticking to his forehead. He wants, he wants...

"Do you mind?"

The accent is heavy and German, only tinted with American. The Soldier stiffens, going onto high alert, and steps backwards.

His heart thuds in his chest as the man pushes a cart loaded with boxes toward a side door. He bangs twice-the Soldier flinches at the first one-and it squeals open. A few more men bustle out and start unloading the boxes. They seem to be filled with boxes and bags of produce, and when the delivery man catches him examining them, he turns to face him.

"You have a problem?" He snaps.

The Soldier counts his options in a heartbeat.

Running will draw attention. Killing the man will draw even more. Excuses are chancy at best. But pretending confusion will likely be effective. From the man's accent he is either a new immigrant or one who has not mastered the language-and the chances of him being sympathetic toward a fellow are high.

"_Do you speak German?" _He asks, hunching his shoulders in.

The man looks him up and down. _"Yes. Why?"_

_ "I am lost. I need... a place to find information." _

As the employees behind him unload the last of his load, the man softens a little. "_I see. What type of information are you looking for?"_

The Soldier thinks this over. _"History_."

Another creak splits through the alley as the door slides shut, and the man leans against his cart with a snort and a half-smile. _"Then you are in luck. The Smithsonian is not far from here. They have plenty of history. Try there." _

He begins to roll his cart out past the Soldier, and pauses long enough to say over his shoulder, "_There are classes you can take, you know. To learn English. It helps."_

Because the man expects it, he inclines his head. _"Thank you_."

Then he slips away in the opposite direction and starts trying to decide the best way to locate this Smithsonian. The more people he asks, the bigger trail he leads. He's stopped under an awning in front of a book store when he finds his answer; a bus pulls up, with a too-bright advertisement sprawling across the side.

_New Captain America Exhibit at the Smithsonian!_

He memorises the address underneath and turns to go.

Now he can begin.

* * *

Steve winces as he tugs a shirt on. It's pale green, and infinitely softer than anything he had on while in the hospital. He's grateful for the feeling of it against his skin, and the fact that he's wearing pants again.

However, the process of putting the clothes on hadn't been pleasant. At all.

Aching in places he hasn't ached since before the serum, Steve limps his way to the kitchen.

"Already out?" Sam pours a glass of water. "I'd've guessed you'd be another twenty minutes at least trying to tie your shoes or something."

A stretched smile flits onto Steve's face. "Glad I can still surprise you." He eases himself into the straight-backed, hard kitchen chair and scoops up a spoonful of rice. His fork shakes a little in his grasp.

Suddenly, Sam's choices of easy-to-eat, light-colored food makes a lot more sense.

"You are full of surprises," Sam replies. He sits at the other side of the table and piles food onto his plate, rubbing absently at a healing cut above his eye. "Speaking of which, any chance you want to-"

"No." Steve sips at his water, his stomach protesting. "Much as I'd like a nap, Bucky needs me. I can't afford to waste time while he's still out there."

"Alright, alright." Sam takes a bite of food and sighs. "Have it your way. If you stay sitting long enough to eat, that's at least five minutes of rest before you go out questing."

Steve nods and sips at his water. "Thanks again, Sam."

"Don't mention it."

They're quiet for a moment, then someone knocks on the front door. It's an impatient knock; three in a row, hard and fast.

Sam and Steve lock eyes, and stand up in unison.

"I'll get it," Sam murmurs. "You be ready."

Steve edges around to stand between the door and the window and waits. He holds his breath. It's not Bucky, it can't be Bucky-but he hopes it is.

Sam has a gun in one hand, pulled from somewhere, and he swings the door open with it at the ready.

"Whoa, whoa, stand down, soldier."

Steve's shoulders loosen in relief and something in his temple twitches habitually. "Stark," he mutters.

"Hello to you too, Sunshine." Tony pushes his way in, dressed in a suit and a loud blue tie. "You look like heck, Rogers. Do we need to get you a babysitter?"

Sam blinks at him. "Stark. Like Tony Stark?"

"Ah, you've heard of me. Wonderful." Tony flashes him a charming grin and turns back to Steve. "So Cap. I don't know if anybody's told you, but this little number here-" he holds up Steve's shield, looking like it's just gotten a fresh paint job, "it's not really replaceable. So if I were you, I probably wouldn't go throwing it into any more rivers. Ya feel?"

Steve snatches it from his hands and tests its weight, and they stop shaking for the first time since he woke up. "How'd you find it?"

"Did a little deep-water diving in the suit," Tony says, shrugging. "Had to get it before some schmuck found it and decided he wanted a souvenir. I'm going to be picking gravel and fish scales out of the armor for a week, by the way, so I expect flowers or something."

"Thank you, Stark," Steve says, and finds a smile. "This means a lot."

Tony waves his hand as if he can bat Steve's gratitude out of the air before it sticks. "Yeah, well, at least it wasn't you we had to go fishing for this time." His eyes shift and his mouth twists a little. "I heard about Fury."

Steve does not let his expression shift, not except for his mouth turning down at the sides. "Yeah."

"Good leader, that one," Tony said, "though not so much on the sharing thing."

Steve nods again, his free hand tracing the edge of the shield. "He was."

"Well, anyway, I've got to go. Pep's waiting. You take care of this, and you-" he jerks his finger at Sam, "take care of him. Later, taters."

He's halfway out the door before Sam speaks, finally dragging himself out of the first-time-being-caught-in-a-stark-whirlwind daze. "Wait. How did you know where I live?"

Tony scoffs. "Please. You know who I am."

He's in a little red convertible with Pepper before either of them can say a word.

They close the door and exchange a look.

"Well." Sam leans against the wall. "You've sure got an interesting bunch of friends."

Steve's mouth quirks up. "Yourself included."

"Yeah, yeah, granted." His eyes fall on the shield and he inhales. "So the shield doesn't change what I said earlier. Five minutes, you, sitting. Got it?"

"Mmm."

Steve sits, letting the shield lean against his thigh, and eats with his mind somewhere else entirely.

_"You're my mission_," Bucky had shouted on the helicarrier, wild-eyed.

Well, now he was Steve's.


	4. Having Faith

_Project: Winter Soldier_

_Asset Status: Active_

_Current Mission(s): Gather intel on James Buchanan Barnes; Obtain nutrients_

_Mission Status: In progress_

_Asset Capacity: Critical_

_Time Since Last Cryostasis: 6.5 days_

_Next Mission Report: Not relevant_

xxxxx

For the first time that he can recall, he is having trouble regulating his body's ability to function.

His head spins and a pale shade of grey creeps in at the edges of his vision. It is not a sensation he is familiar with; it reminds him of extreme blood loss, which he somehow knows he has experienced before. The fingers of his flesh hand tremble when he lifts them, and even his metal arm is beginning to feel heavy and stiff.

But this is still secondary in his mind.

Faces and information flash through the front of his thoughts, familiar and piercing but with nothing connecting them. He'd stood in the Smithsonian until it closed. Soaking it in.

Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, Dugan; the 107th division, the Howling Commandos, the destruction of Hydra bases. All these slot into place with the same feeling as his dislocated shoulder. Painful, but natural, returning to where they should be.

His stomach emits a foreign sound as he swerves around a lamp post. Alarm slashes through him and he backs into the cover of an awning, pressing a palm flat against his abdomen and falling silent.

Could it be more programming from Hydra? A sort of timer, that forces him to return him to them after a certain period has elapsed? He would not put it past them. But, at the same time, what would prompt them them do it? They have always been confident in their possession of him. Where else would he go, if not to them, and why would their asset wander away when there was no autonomy to make the decision?

The rumbling returns, louder this time, and the Soldier swallows hard.

He does not want to return to Hydra, but he does not possess the necessary information for self-maintenance.

"You'd better get something to eat quick, young man," a voice says beside him. "Before you deafen the whole city."

He jumps, and his fingers are closed around the knife concealed on his person. The speaker is a stooped, wrinkled woman, with sharp blue eyes.

Not as blue as Rogers' eyes.

"Eat," he repeats in English, not drawing the knife, but not relaxing, either. Anyone could be a Hydra operative in disguise.

"Yes eat. I know you youngsters have a different fad diet for every day of the week now, but you've got to eat something!" She shakes a tiny fist at him and he steps backward, then feels a strange heat come to his cheeks. He does not recognize the reaction.

"What is the purpose of eating?" He asks, his shoulders tense and his voice hoarse. No equivalent in any other languages comes to his mind; he cannot define the word without outside assistance.

The old woman rolls her eyes and pokes at him with a gnarled finger. "See? That's what I mean. It's not _hip_ to starve, young man. Ask anybody who's had to. Eating is as necessary as breathing. Now are you going to go get some food or will you wait until you have to be hooked up in a hospital somewhere?"

Something slots into place in his head and his eyes widen.

"Eating is a way to obtain nutrients?" His fingers let go of the knife and instead rub his forearm, feeling the ghosts of a hundred needles. "As a replacement for intravenous supplements?"

Wind whistles past them, ruffling his hair and the old woman's shawl. She gives him a look that he cannot read. "You've clearly been starving yourself for so long you're touched in the head. Yes. There's a deli down the street, you should go there, and try their club sandwich. I'm going inside before my granddaughter gets antsy and sends the dogs after me."

He shudders at this, though he can't say why.

"Do it or I'll know!" Her call is pushed toward him by the wind. "I've raised enough children to have a sixth sense!"

Then she disappears into a doorway and he is left alone.

His gaze flicks down the street and a red sign catches his attention.

_Deli_.

The woman is old. She has been being human for many years, so she must be a reliable source of knowledge on the matter. He will try eating and see what the result is.

His stomach growls again and he has a distant flash of a cold apartment and an empty cupboard.

Long after it passes, bright, hungry blue eyes remain in his mind.

xxxxx

The woman behind the counter is slight, with deep brown skin and a bob of fire-engine colored hair. When she sees him, she falters, the friendliness in her bearing replaced by wariness.

It is not the first time this has occurred (quite the opposite). But it is the first time that something pangs in his chest because of it.

"What are you having?" She asks, with a smile. It is a tight smile, and he files that in his growing list of facial expressions to categorize.

The lists behind her are cramped and bright and make his head spin even more, so he lowers his eyes and clears his throat. "A club sandwich."

"To stay or to go?"

He starts to respond, then realizes he may no longer have the requisite strength to _go_ anywhere. "To stay."

She rattles off a price and he hands over all the money he has left. Slowly, eyeing him, she drags it across the counter, counts it, and passes some back.

"Have a seat anywhere and we'll bring it out to you."

It's the first direct order he's been given in days. Something loosens in his chest while something else tightens. He sits in a corner, giving himself the best vantage point on the rest of the deli, and tugs the brim of his baseball cap down.

The other woman behind behind the counter had been looking at him a little too closely.

When they deposit a glass full of ice cubes and water in front of him, he touches the backs of his fingers to it and a shiver runs up his skin at the chill. Alexander Pierce often brought glasses like this, filled with a different colored liquid, and drank it during mission reports.

He lifts it gingerly and takes a sip.

It runs cold and clear down his throat and his breath hitches.

Before this, he has no memory of performing this action, but it feels right. And it feels... good.

He gulps the rest of the glass and sets it down. His head aches with the cold, but energy buzzes through his fingertips. A man refills his glass and he drains it twice more, feeling more alert than he has since before the helicarrier.

It seems that even machines require water.

xxxxx

Steve's heart is so heavy he thinks it might sink all the way to his feet.

They slip into Sam's house and the door thuds closed behind them.

Silence fills the room, broken only by the low hum of appliances and the television they'd left on that morning.

It sits like a blanket on the air for a moment before either of them say anything.

"I can't believe we didn't find anything." Steve sits on the edge of the couch, wooden, and rests his head in his hands. "He could be anywhere by now."

"He's alone and confused," Sam says, sitting on the coffee table across from him. He speaks in that kind/firm voice he used at the VA meeting. "It's only been a couple days since the fight, and he's injured. I don't think he'll be making a break for it just yet."

The thought of Bucky alone, confused, and injured is not reassuring in the way Sam intended, but it is logical, at least. "Yeah. Guess not."

"We'll try again tomorrow." Sam's steps thud across the floor to the kitchen.

Steve keeps his hands pressed against his eyes, so hard that he sees stars. A wave of failure, helplessness, uselessness threatens to drown him. If not for Bucky needing his help, he might have let it.

"Think I might stop by some more of your meetings, when this is over," he says, low and quiet. It's not quite an admission, but it says what he can't in a way that Sam will understand.

"We'll be glad to have you," Sam replies easily, as the fridge creaks open. "Sometimes we even have cookies and juice."

"Well, I'm sold."

The humor is weak but helpful. Lends at least some sense of normality. But after that, Sam steps back over and nudges Steve's shoulder with his fingers.

"I can _hear_ you being too hard on yourself, man," he says, and sets something metal on the coffee table.

Steve lifts his head for the first time and picks up the can of Cola gratefully. The metal rests cool between his hands and he pops the top, sipping. "It is my fault, though."

"I don't believe that for a second, and neither should you." Sam's phone goes off and he slides it out, fingers flying across the screen in the effortless way of someone from this century. "Hey, I'm going to go get us some food."

Something's changed in his voice, but Steve doesn't register it.

"Alright."

The door clicks shut and he's left alone.

xxxxx

Sam's heart pounds as he starts his car.

_You know that guy you asked me to keep an eye out for?_

_ Yeah. What about him?_

_ Pretty sure he just walked into the diner. _

Ming is one of his regulars at the VA meetings. She's a second gen immigrant from China who served in Afghanistan.

And she's one of the few people he'd trusted to help him with finding Barnes.

_I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't freak him out, but don't let him leave._

_ Better hurry then. _

He keeps his speed just above the limit, but with everything that's happened, he thinks the cops are probably more worried about other things than traffic violations. Sweat makes his palms slip on the steering wheel, and he wipes them, one at a time. His mouth twists.

Why is he nervous about meeting Barnes?

...and why didn't he tell Steve about it?

He pulls a California stop and sighs. It's the same answer to both questions.

He trusts Steve, and Steve trusts him, and Steve also trusts Barnes. But Sam doesn't know Barnes, doesn't trust him yet, and doesn't trust that meeting right now will be the best thing for either of them.

From what he hears, Barnes is currently a pretty messed up guy.

So for now, he'll handle it and gauge how much of Steve's hope he can conscientiously encourage. Optimism is important, but a balance of realism is, too.

"Hey, watch where you're goin', buddy," someone snaps as he slides into a parking spot outside the deli.

"Sorry, man," Sam says, flashing an apologetic smile. The man grumbles as he walks off.

Quick as a wink, Sam tucks his sunglasses into his pocket and jumps out. His keys jangle in his pocket and the bells ring as he opens the door.

Ming makes eye contact with him and jerks her head to the side.

Barnes is in the corner and there's a sandwich sitting untouched in front of him. He's staring at it like he's never seen one before and doesn't quite know what to do with it-Sam realizes a second too late that that's probably the truth.

"Thanks," he murmurs to Ming, and slips across the room.

He stands not too far and not too close, makes sure his hands are visible, and clears his throat. "Hey. Remember me?"

xxxxxx

The Soldier tears off a piece of a leafy green plant (_lettuce) _when they bring him the club sandwich.

The people around him put the food in their mouths and chew it. He tries this with the lettuce and grimaces. It feels strange and hurts his bruised jaw and makes his stomach roll unpleasantly.

So he just eyes the sandwich, dubious, and eyes the other patrons even more dubiously.

He's examining the _club sandwich_-comprised of two slices of spongy bread filled with things he has possibly seen before but does not recall or have names for-when a voice comes out of nowhere.

A flinch jolts through him and his knife is drawn under the table before he can consciously decide to do it.

"Remember me?" The man asks.

Yes. He does.

"You were with Captain America," the Soldier says. "And the Black Widow."

"I was." The man inclines his head toward the table. "Can I sit?"

The Soldier shifts, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his knife. He does not want to say yes but he has never directly denied anything to anyone before. Even away from Hydra, it cannot be allowed for him... Can it?

"I'm not here to hurt you," the man who had wings says, when he doesn't respond.

"Did Captain America survive?" He asks, his throat closing up. This reaction does not make sense to him, but it is accompanied by a painful, stabbing flutter in his lower abdomen. He has not seen any reports of Captain America's death, but they could easily withhold such information if it were not beneficial.

"Yeah. He did. He'll be fine." The man holds out a hand but doesn't look surprised or offended when the Soldier makes no move to take it. "I'm Sam, by the way. Sam Wilson. And it's Bucky, right?"

The Soldier tenses. He opens his mouth to say that names are for humans, not tools. He has no name, no designation, and if there is a need to address him he may be referred to as the asset or, by others, the soldier.

But he stops.

He does not wish to return to that. A blank state with no awareness, who kills as easily as breathing. The longer he is away from Hydra, the more the things he did for them seem to be... wrong.

So he does not quite feel like their nameless asset now, but he is certainly not Bucky, either.

"Not Bucky, I take it?" Sam ventures, voice breaking the silence.

The Soldier's gaze snaps to his eyes. He is _not_ Bucky, not the one they know, but perhaps he can be something in between.

"James." It's foreign on his tongue and he doesn't know how to equate it with himself, but it's better than the current alternatives. "You can sit."

Giving someone _permission_ is even more foreign than the name.

"James." Sam sits, and settles back against the patterned cushion behind him. "I'm going to be straight with you."

His eyes narrow as he tries to divine the meaning of this phrase. "Straight?"

"Straightforward." Sam shrugs. "I have a hard time not saying it like it is. You cool with that?"

A slow nod.

"Great." Sam's forearms rest on the table-the table underneath which the Soldier still has a knife at the ready. "So Steve is looking for you." His dark eyes are piercing. "How do you feel about that?"

The Soldier stiffens. "I..." The knife falls limp in his grasp and his shoulders hunch inward. "I need more time."

Sam nods, and his fingers rub against each other. "I can understand that."

Thinking about Rogers for too long makes his head ache, so he changes the subject.

"Hydra. Does it still exist?"

"Yeah, it does." Sam's face twists. "Unfortunately. You know they're probably looking for you too, right?"

The Soldier lowers his head. "I am aware." He does not raise his eyes. "Why are you here? To capture me or to kill me?"

Asking a question feels less dangerous if he is not looking at the subject.

Sam lets out a large breath quickly, all at once. "Wow, man. No. Neither. I'm here because you're a friend of my friend, and I'm trying to get a handle the situation. Ideally, I'd bring you back and you and Steve could figure out this mess together-" the Soldier starts to stand- "but _obviously_ that's not an option."

Slowly, wary, the Soldier sits back down. "I do not understand."

Sam lets out another one of those breaths, but this one is slower. "Okay. Steve is my friend. Do you know what that is?"

He has heard the word before in association with his missions. _Friend of, enemy of. _"An ally."

"Something like that. Steve wants to be your ally, and I'm cool with that, but I want the both of you to take care of yourselves before you gang up on the rest of us." Sam flashes a smile at a waitress that brings over another glass of water. It is bright, charming, and natural. It reminds the Soldier of a newsreel of him and Rogers-he had been laughing, both of them had been. He cannot imagine laughing.

"I-I think," he begins, unsure in expressing any thoughts or desires, "that I would like to go back to Brooklyn. I want to... remember. But I am-I need more time before another encounter with Rogers."

He cannot bear the weight of Roger's preconceptions, not now. And he is sure that the programming would kick back in and try to compel him to kill Captain America on sight, and he does not want to do that.

"That's what I wanted to know." Sam pulls something out of his pocket-the Soldier goes stiff again-and slides it across the table.

"What is that?" He asks.

"It's a cell phone. Just a cheap one. But it's got my number in there. If you need help, you call that number. You got it? And if you keep me updated on your location, I can steer Steve away until you're ready."

If Sam had this on his person, he must have been preparing for this. The Soldier looks for an ulterior motive and finds none. "Why are you doing this?"

Of all the people the man who had wings could be helping right now, he is probably among the least deserving.

"Because." The Falcon leans forward again, earnest and firm. "My gut tells me that you're a good guy who's been through hell. And everybody deserves another shot."

This... _belief_ hits him like a wave and sends him reeling. "Oh."

"Here's something to get you started." He sets a folded pile of bills beside the Soldier and levels him with a stare. "Don't ghost on me, okay? I swear I'll do what I can to help you."

He inclines his head, still numb. "Thank you," he says, and doesn't think he's said the words in English before.

"You're welcome." Sam stands to go, and pauses at the edge of the table. "Try picking your sandwich up, and taking a bite." He mimes it. "Like this. It's easier."

The Soldier does so, cautious. He crunches through layers of fillings and his eyes go large. The explosion of taste and texture is like nothing he has ever encountered before. Sweet, salty, savory, crisp, smooth.

His stomach growls, demanding more, and a grin flits across Sam's face. "I'll leave you to it. See you around, James."

The Soldier-James?-nods. "See you."


	5. The Daily Special

_Again, thanks for all your support! You guys are awesome! _

_I would also like to thank Sam Wilson for being a fabulous nonchalant mother-er. Steve would probably be living off of saltine crackers and soda and sleeping in a rental car without him._

_This chapter has some shameless headcanon stuff. I make no excuses. This isn't supposed to be shippy. I don't think Bucky/James is ready for that yet, but I do think that learning to interact with others-and seeing that he CAN interact with people without hurting them-is very important for him._

_Did anyone else see X-Men DOFP this past week? What did you think, if you did?_

_Without further ado... Enjoy!_

* * *

_Designation: James_

_Status: MIA_

_Current Mission(s): Evade capture; Reach Brooklyn_

_Mission Status: In progress_

_Capacity: 80%_

_Time Since Last Cryostasis: 8 days_

* * *

The noise of Brooklyn surrounds them. It's different than it used to be, louder and more mechanical, but it's grown familiar in the last few years. Something about it is still comforting. Steve stands at the base of his apartment building, looking up. The wind is at his back, chilling his neck, and he shivers.

There are listening devices in his lampshades, holes in his walls, and bloodstains in his carpet.

"What do you say we get a hotel, man?" Sam asks from behind him.

Steve turns halfway around. Lets out a breath. "Sure. That sounds good."

They walk away from the apartment building-Steve doesn't know when he'll be back. "You know you don't have to do this," he says, squinting up at the sun.

Sam looks up from his phone. "Do what?"

He gestures loosely. "This. Any of it." Steve drags a hand through his hair, and winces. He lets his arm fall back to his side. Super-healing accounted for, he still took a beating four days ago.

"Yeah, well, I already got us a room booked," Sam says, holding up his phone. "Pretty sure they're not going to refund me."

"Thanks," Steve murmurs, switching his bag to the other hand.

"You're welcome. I've got one thing to ask in return, okay?" With one smooth gesture, Sam hails a cab and steps forward. He opens the door, quirks his eyebrows.

Steve slides in. A faint smile twists his mouth. "And what would that be?"

The leather seat squeaks as Sam scoots onto the opposite seat. He gives Steve a solemn look that hold a hint of mischief. "You gotta stop beating yourself up-and that includes thinking you don't deserve my help. I'm here 'cause I want to be, alright? No more of this self-deprecating crap."

Heat rushes to Steve's cheeks and he rubs the back of his neck. Was it that obvious? "Tall order. I'll do my best." A second passes, and his face cools. He shoots a sidelong glance at his companion (accomplice?). "I think I liked it better when you were still in the hero worship phase. Now you're so..."

"Bossy?" Sam's grin widens. "Yeah, I know. It's good for you. And I was never in the _hero worship phase._ I'm way too down to earth for that." He puts his hands behind his head and leans back in place.

This pulls a laugh out of Steve. "Right."

Sam's a good friend.

He tilts his head toward the tinted window and stares up at the buildings they pass. Some of them are familiar; but he sees the ghosts of buildings that are changed, renovated, gone altogether. For him, it's a city chock full of memories. For Bucky, it'd be... He doesn't know what it'll be. "What makes you think he'll come here first?"

Sam's eyes don't open, but he nods. "Eh... I just got a feeling."

* * *

_Things going ok?_

James looks down at the message, fingers rubbing against the edge of the screen in a nervous rhythm. He is in the back of a shipping truck, boxes pressed up uncomfortably into his sides. It smells like dust and cardboard and ink.

_please define "ok"_

He finally hits send and ignores the uneasy flutterings in his stomach. Requesting information- requesting _anything_- makes him feel like the ground might fall out from under his feet at any moment.

_Ok=abbreviated version of okay. Meaning adequate; well; acceptable. Also an affirmative response._

Digesting this, James tugs a tape gun away from his spine and examines it. The truck jolts over a bump just as he does, and it catches his cheek and leaves a scratch. He winces.

_progressing slowly. nothing outside of acceptable parameters has occurred. _

_ Cool. Keep me posted._

Sam Wilson uses a high frequency of slang words and colloquial expressions. The Solder- James- can scarcely keep up at times. But an order is an order. He will not return to Hydra, but it seems that by accepting help from an ally of Rogers, he has landed in the periphery of SHIELD's net. Being a weapon for them would not be ideal, either (_he won't_), but he can bide his time and follow orders for now.

_understood._

The man who had wings does not respond, and James glances up to the front of the truck. Only a layer of sheet metal separates him from the driver. Particularly with his enhanced hearing capability, it is easy to hear the woman's conversation.

"Yeah, I know, Jan. After this paycheck I should be able to cover it. Hey, I got my next stop coming up, I better go." She has a faint New York accent, mostly visible around her vowels.

He sighs. There are no longer enough boxes left to conceal his presence here. If she is stopping, then he must go. His current location is a mystery to him. The truck is heading for Brooklyn, but he has no idea where it is on its route at the moment. Had he been paying closer attention, he could have gauged it based on elapsed time and average speed.

The truck screeches to a halt and he braces himself. A box threatens to topple onto his head, but he kicks it back into place. This is hardly a secure method of transport.

Quietly, he lifts the pole that latches the door closed and slips out, locking it back behind himself.

The man in the car behind them glances up from his phone long enough to give James a strange look, but looks back down quickly enough. He tugs his baseball cap down further and nudges the worn backpack up his shoulder.

He needs to buy more sustenance.

* * *

Thanks to Sam Wilson's funds, he has the backpack, a bottle of water, several nonperishable food items, and one change of clothing. Anywhere he goes he is met with suspicion and wary looks, so he has tried to keep his purchases minimal.

There's a boy leaning against a metal-and-glass case of papers. "How much for a newspaper?" James asks, trying to maintain a nonthreatening posture.

"What?" The boy looks up from his phone and makes a face. "I ain't selling them, dude. Get your own paper."

The urge to engage tickles the hairs on the back of his neck, but he simply nods and the boy steps aside. Fishing in his pocket, James inserts several coins and retrieves a newspaper.

They still smell the same, he thinks absently.

"'scuse me," the boy says, in a way that does not even faintly resemble politeness, and pushes past him. He swallows down his frustration. Civilians are fragile and oblivious. He does not want casualties, so he has to keep himself carefully in check. The more he tries to do normal things, the more he realizes how strong he is. How he was designed for anything _but_ normal life.

Sometimes it fills him with doubt, but usually it just makes him want to do even better, to spite his intended purpose.

_Philadelphia Inquirer,_ the headline reads.

So that is his location.

Philadelphia is a large population center, the capital of Pennsylvania. Approximately halfway between Washington DC and Brooklyn. He still has two hours by vehicle, if he can access one; much longer on foot. An unfamiliar emotion settles in his stomach. It is heavy and oppressive, sapping his motivation to continue.

He rummages for a pencil stub and the small notebook he'd purchased and writes the feeling down. The notebook is in several languages and he doubts anyone else would be able to decipher it, but he plans (_hopes) _that someday, it will all make sense to him.

"Seriously, lady, would you hurry it up?"

At the tone, he goes stiff. The diner he's walking by is small, with the door propped open in hopes of a breeze.

He pauses in front of the window. His leans into the shadow of the worn awning and examines the interior. There are fourteen people inside, and there appears to be only one employee in the restaurant. She is slightly younger than his theoretical age, small, and redheaded.

"You've been holding me up for a good five minutes now," the young woman says. "If you'd let me work, it would be done faster."

The man's expression darkens. "Don't smart-mouth me, just work quicker."

"I'm doing my best, sir. If you would please be patient, it'll only be-"

"It's been over twenty minutes!" The man stands. Closes a hand around her wrist. "I either want my food or I want a refund."

She twists her wrist out of his grasp. "If you aren't going to be civil, you will need to leave the premises. Your food should be out soon."

"You-" The man looms over her, and his body language suggests high threat levels. None of the other patrons do anything to help.

In a flash, James ducks through the door and clears his throat. "Is there a problem here?"

The girl's head snaps toward him and confusion writes itself across her face. Her antagonizer turns and gives him a dark look.

"None of your business, pal."

"I think it is, _pal_." His voice comes out with a new accent. James steps forward and places himself between the waitress and the customer, looking down at the man. "You want to keep complaining?"

He sizes James up and his head goes down, an irritated mumble his only response. He fades out the door and doesn't return.

It is the first time in a week that James has been grateful for his appearance.

"Thanks," the girl says. She rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. "You didn't have to do that."

James shrugs, not sure what to say. He has had very few interactions with other people in the last 70 years that did not involve either experimentation, violence, or brainwashing.

Her brow creases as she looks around and her shoulders sink. "I've got to get back to work. Thanks again."

James nods and starts to go, then feels a tug behind his sternum. She is clearly overwhelmed. That voice that sometimes pierces through his thoughts says that he should offer help. It is very _irritating_ (this is one emotion he has defined) that the voice holds such sway on him. He scowls inwardly.

"What can I do to assist you?"

Surprise lifts her eyebrows and she shakes her head. "No, I'm good, you can go."

"I've got your back," he says, the unfamiliar words spilling out. "No joke. What can I do for you?"

"Can you cook?" She asks.

He shakes his head, slowly.

"Well, if you really want to help, you could bring the food out after I make it. Quinn was supposed to be on the back today, but she didn't show." She straightens her apron and gestures. "I can get you one of these. Follow me, okay?"

He nods, following her through a narrow doorway into a- kitchen? - he believes it is called. She shows him a place to hang his things. Reluctantly, he removes his hat, jacket, and backpack.

After he ties on one of their aprons, she holds out a pink, circular band.

Uncomprehending, he lets her drop it into his hand. "What is this for?"

"For your hair. It's health code, sorry. Do you need help?" The girl is already washing her hands, and reaches for him, dripping and soapy.

"No," he says quickly. "I will do it." He does not want anyone to touch him.

Eyeing the back of her head as she washes her hands, he tries to emulate the twist that she has. His hair is not as long as hers. Instead of a contained bun, he feels pieces sticking out at odd angles. A few wisps still fall against his face. It is still strange for his hair to be so soft and clean. He does not believe Hydra was concerned with such things.

"Looks great," she says. "Here, you can wash up next. I'll start on the first order."

He moves into her place and follows the posted guidelines precisely. When he has finished the second hand-washing interval, he turns and dries his hands on a paper towel. The bright-white apron is hauntingly reminiscent of the doctors, but he presses down a shudder and looks to the girl.

"You will not face disciplinary action for this, will you?"

"As long as my boss doesn't find out. But he's in Connecticut for the week. Alright, if you're sure about this, would you grab some trays and start putting the orders together?" She's easily cooking six things at once, but still spares a second to look up at him. "I'm Melanie, by the way. What's your name?"

"James," he says. It comes easier each time he tries it. He goes to the other side

of the window, out front. Habit, or instinct, maybe, makes him keep tabs on all possible exits, threats, and weapons while he steps up to the window and starts organizing food to match the papers. Vigilance is so deeply engrained that he does not consciously try to do it.

"Hey," a soft male voice says behind him. "I'm not going to get in your face like that other guy, but do you have any idea when our food might be ready? My daughters have a ballet class."

"What is your name?" James asks, glancing up at the tickets. Now that Melanie has her full focus on preparation, food is beginning to appear on plates.

"Tyler."

"It is nearly complete." He tries to approximate a smile, but gives up quickly. "I will bring it to your table as soon as it is."

"Thanks." The man goes back to sit with his daughters and James does a brief assessment of the clientele before going back to his work.

Melanie grins at him through the window. "Order up!"

* * *

Sam hangs upside down off the bed and stares at the TV. "That's messed up, man."

Steve is laying flat, his knees bent and feet almost touching the ground. Sam doesn't know when his new roommate stopped watching the screen, but he imagines it was around the time that they started calling Natasha things like _Soviet implant _and _murdering traitor_.

"It isn't right." Steve's heels tap a restless beat against the side of the bed. "Not after everything she's done for them. The only reason they know about anything she's done is because _she_ exposed it. To help save them."

"I know, man." Sam rubs a hand over his face and checks his watch. Room service is not as fast as it used to be, he decides. Not that he's had many chances to try it. "I don't know what we can do about it."

"We've got to do _something_." Steve sits up then, his hair ruffled. "She was my partner."

"For now, you've got to stay out of the spotlight." Blood is seriously starting to rush to his head, and he sits up too. His eyes feel like they're pushing out of his skull, and the room spins. "Especially if you want to be free to track Barnes down."

"I know." Steve looks toward the window, tugging his sweatshirt tighter around his shoulders. "It doesn't seem fair that she's taking so much of the heat."

"Say what you want," Natasha says from the broadcast. "But none of you would be sitting here today if not for me and my team."

She doesn't break for a second. Her words are flat and even, her chin is high, and her expression is steady. Bored, even. She's a pro. Only the concealed bruises on her cheek and the scab above her eye show any sign of weakness. And even that just somehow makes her look more intimidating.

"I just want her to know that she doesn't have to go it alone," Steve says. "That I'm here for her. I don't know how to get the message to her."

"You do have a phone," Sam reminds him. "I've even seen you text her before. Why don't you try that? Invite her for dinner. I'm sure we can microwave something good."

"That's a good idea," Steve murmurs, and pulls out his phone. He's actually very good with technology, all things considered. It takes him a little while to get the hang of it, and then he's set. He just doesn't immediately think of using it, which makes sense.

Sam can't even _imagine_ a world where instant communication didn't exist. Not to mention Google.

"I wish Bucky had a phone," Steve says, wistful. "It would make this a lot easier."

Guilt swims around in Sam's stomach. "It would help," he agrees. It's going to be tough to explain to Steve, when the time comes. Getting him to trust Sam again might take awhile. But he's seen enough damaged relationships, enough traumatized vets, to know that these things can't be rushed.

"Room service." The words are accompanied by a knock.

"Yes," Sam crows, and nudges Steve. "Alright. We can plan later. For now, let's eat."

* * *

Outside, the sky darkens, and stars form pinpricks through the layers of clouds and light pollution. The city slowly begins to quiet.

James settles into the bus seat and lets himself relax a little.

He'd helped Melanie for the remainder of her shift, and it's late now. As such, he's almost the only one on the bus. The only other passengers are a mother with a baby at the rear- both sleeping, and an elderly man in the front- squinting at a yellowed novel.

Neither of them currently pose a threat, and for that he is grateful. He does not know how long he has maintained a constant state of alertness for in the past, but it is wearying in sustained intervals.

The headlights of neighboring cars blur with neon signs and buildings, and the only sound is the low static of a radio and a chuffing engine.

"Stay on until Penn Station," Melanie had said, as she'd swept the floor in front of the register. She'd insisted on him sitting and eating something she'd made as repayment for helping her.

(He gathering a larger variety of tastes.)

She was... different. Given that his only interactions have been with Hydra, scientists, military, or targets, it is not difficult to imagine his experience is limited. But she was natural and awkward and funny. And... Kind.

He is discovering that much more kindness exists in day to day life than he ever thought possible. It is so foreign that he can't quite process it. Kindness has never been part of his life until now.

"Settle in, folks," the bus driver says, his voice a sleepy lull. "No more stops for awhile."

James leans his head against the glass and looks out the window. His lips curl up faintly; it's not Barnes's smile from the newsreels, but it is more than he has ever done in his own memory.

Something in him feels still and calm, like undisturbed water, and a warmth spreads up through his lungs.

Brooklyn may hold good things. If nothing else, he can believe in that.


	6. Compromising Circumstances

_Hello! I am not dead! I'm very sorry this has taken so long... I moved and didn't have internet for awhile, and I've been super busy. But I hope this is satisfactory! Eventually there may actually be some plot here... Possibly. _

_I'd love to hear from you all, so drop me a line if you wish. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_Designation: James_

_Status: MIA_

_Current Mission(s): Unknown_

_Capacity: 75%_

_Time Since Last Cryostasis: 9 days_

* * *

His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might rip from his chest.

The city is waking around him—not that it was quiet even in sleep—and his eyes are round as he stares up at the towering buildings.

Sunlight peeks through the cracks and cars speed down the roads. There are bright colors and flashing lights and everything is full of _noise_. Sometimes he passes a building, a diner, or a park, and something hits him hard.

Flashes of his old life in Brooklyn, before the missions, before his handlers, HYDRA, Arnim Zola, even before the war.

He walks by a bookshop and freezes in his tracks, winded by the force of the memory that strikes him.

_"C'mon, Bucky, we're gonna be late!" _

_ Blonde hair askew in the wind, blue eyes wide and energetic, Steve waves back to him. _

_ "Aw, slow down. I'm beat, and we're fine." Bucky holds himself back, slowing deliberately. For all of Steve's excitement, he'll tire himself out in a block and a half if he continues at that pace. _

_ Steve sighs a little, but falls back to walk at Bucky's side. His cheeks are flushed. Bucky's chest squeezes with worry—it could be fever or heat exhaustion or a dozen other things—but it seems to just be good cheer. _

_ "Are you excited?" Steve asks. "Fourth grade. We're more 'n half done."_

_ Bucky has dreaded going back for three months, but for Steve, he finds a jaunty grin. "'course I am." _

The memories are flooding in, but they're only shards, stabbing at his mind in ways he can't begin to organize.

He's gathered that the tiny blonde boy was his Mission. Most of Barnes' (_his_) past seems to revolve around the small boy. But how Steve went from one state to the other is a mystery still. He has a few recollections of the Mission—Steve—as an adult, and even then he wasn't the man the Soldier fought.

There are many blanks left to fill.

"Walk or move, buddy," a man barks. He brushes past and James stumbles to the side.

A stack of crates rests before an alley behind him, obscuring most of the entrance. Instead of moving back onto the sidewalk, James slips behind them, resting his head back against the bricks. His heart hasn't slowed.

Never, ever in his limited memory has he had so much in his head.

Before, things always followed the same pattern: they woke him up, they stabilized his condition, they gave him the mission details, he carried out the mission, he returned. If he did well he was wiped and returned to cryostasis. If he did not do well he was punished and reconditioned before that. There have never been more than a handful of identities and a smaller handful of memories and information stored in his mind at one time.

And now he's being flooded.

He had thought (_hoped_) that Brooklyn would help find himself.

But remembering parts of the person he used to be is only making him feel lost.

* * *

Bacon sizzles (in the microwave) and Sam hums as he pours a glass of orange juice. It's morning, and Steve is sitting at the table marking up a map while Sam makes breakfast. Granted, it's cobbled together from prepackaged and heat-and-serve food, but hey, breakfast.

"Here ya go," Sam says, sliding a plate across the table.

Steve takes an absent bite and Sam gets himself some chow. By the time he's sitting down, Steve hasn't even made it through a quarter of his bagel; he's chewing on the end of his pencil instead.

"Hey, the food doesn't do anything for you if it just sits on your plate. Take a bite."

Automatically, Steve does so. It's quiet for a second, then:

"...Sam."

He swallows his bacon. "Yeah?"

"I just realized something."

Sam looks up, his eyebrows raised. "Do share."

"You—" Steve jabs his plastic fork toward Sam, accusing. "You've been distracting me."

He can't tell if Rogers is annoyed or messing with him or ticked off, or all of the above, so he decides to roll with the punches.

"What?" Sam tilts his head, the picture of innocence. "Me? What do you mean?"

Steve says, "you've spent the last four days making me _sit down_ and sleep and eat. We've barely done any searching. Did the hospital put you up to it? Did _Fury_?"

"No." Sam gives him a mild look. "Maybe I'm just a natural mother. But it worked. You look a heck of a lot better than you did four days ago."

Things are tense for a moment, Steve's muscles tight and his mouth drawn into a thin line. He's looking down and to the side, obviously not quite in the moment. Sam feels a flash of guilt. Of course the man is worried about Barnes, wants to devote all his time to trying to find him, help him. Sam would be just as focused in his place. If he'd thought there was _any_ chance Riley had been alive, he wouldn't have let anything stop him.

But Steve looks _better_. He really does, and Sam refuses to regret that. If Captain America dropped dead on his watch, he'd probably be declared a terrorist or something. And besides that, he just plain likes the guy.

"I understand why you did it," Steve says. "And I appreciate that you care. You're a good friend. But now I need your help. And I need to know that you won't stand in my way."

He's in full soldier form now, his shoulders squared and his eyes alight.

"I won't. In fact..." He makes a split second decision to take a risk. "I've got a lead."

Steve practically jumps out of his chair, reaching for his shield. "You what? And you're only mentioning it _now_?"

"It wasn't really a before breakfast kind of thing." Sam gulps the last of his apple juice and sets his hotel-logo mug down back onto his hotel-logo coaster and wiped his mouth with a restaurant-logo napkin. Really, they should be getting paid for this kind of promotion.

"Well, breakfast is over." Steve looks at him expectantly, standing on the balls of his feet in the middle of the kitchen. He might lift off at any moment, Sam thinks.

He takes the plunge anyway. "One of my friends said they saw Barnes in Brooklyn early this morning. He's around somewhere." It's not a lie, his cell phone is kind of a friend.

Steve gets a funny expression on his face. Like someone has just given him a brand new puppy and then taken it away and kicked it.

"Bucky is—here?" Steve's voice cracks a little, and he swallows so hard it's audible. When he speaks again, his words are military-steady. "We have to get in contact with him somehow. Where did your friend see him?"

Uneasiness twists in Sam's stomach. He's walking a thin wire, here, fringing on breaking both Barnes' and Steve's trust. But he's gotta believe it'll work out for the best. "Getting off a bus," he manages, and even manages to sound normal. "A couple miles east of here."

Steve goes from tired breakfast-eater to mission ready in about sixty seconds, hair combed, shoes on, shield tucked under his arm. His eyes are a bit too bright, but firm with determination.

"Let's go."

* * *

James walks by a parking lot that used to be an ice cream shop. He's just getting a flash of memory—abandoning his shake _and_ his date because Steve started coughing and didn't stop—when the back of his neck tickles.

His heart picks up and he brushes his hand against his side, making sure his knife is at the ready.

Someone is following him.

Under the pretence of peering into a storefront, he uses the glass to search behind him. A flash of red disappears behind the building, but he sees nothing more. Perhaps he's only being paranoid. From what he has seen, both HYDRA and SHIELD have been disbanded, and few others know his identity well enough to track him by sight.

He has realized that he wasn't conditioned for civilian life—he expects danger at any and every moment.

Trying to calm his pulse, he starts to walk again. All seems normal, and he ducks around a stack of cardboard boxes at the entrance of an alley.

Then a sharp pain stabs his neck and a hand covers his mouth.

Fighting reflexes send him whirling, struggling, reaching for his weapon. But his assailant is experienced. Another pain stabs, this time in his leg, and the world starts to go hazy. His head pounds and his vision greys and he struggles until he can't move anymore.

The light fades to black.

* * *

Steve stays next to Sam as they search the streets of Brooklyn. He should not have snapped at his friend this morning, and the guilt of it sits heavy in his chest.

He feels guilty about so many things at this point, that it might have officially become his primary emotion.

And he even feels guilty about _that_. It's a vicious cycle.

"I can _see_ you thinking, man." Sam nudges his shoulder. "You're gonna give yourself a heart attack with all this stress."

Steve glances sideways at him. "Have any suggestions?"

"Have you tried... writing it out?"

The sun pours down on them as it rises above the skyscrapers, but it's a pleasantly warm spring sun, not the choking dry heat of summer. Steve steps over a spiderweb crack in the pavement, thinking of the times when he and Bucky would spend hours roaming on days like this. Spring has always been Steve's favorite season. When he was young, winter meant pneumonia and croup and hypothermia, summer led to heat exhaustion and sunstroke and coughing, and fall always made his allergies and asthma worse, not to mention the growing chill.

But Spring is warm and clean and fresh. It was when he felt almost healthy, before the serum.

He still likes it.

"Writing it out?" He asks Sam, pausing to brush his fingers over a flowering vine. "You mean, like a story?"

Sam shrugs. "If that's what works for you. Or just... make a list, write a letter, whatever. It helps to get it out somehow. If talking to people about how you feel isn't your style, write how you feel. Nobody else has to read it, but it makes a difference not to have it all just hammering around in your head."

Dimly, Steve remembers getting similar advice from some of the many SHIELD therapists he'd been strong-armed into seeing when he'd first woken up. (He is a bonafide expert at tuning them out.) But coming from Sam, it sounds like something he might actually do.

"I'll try it," he says. Shielding his eyes, he searches up ahead for a glimpse of dark hair, a glint of sunlight off metal, anything. He's afraid he'll never find Bucky. And he's about ready to try desperate measures. Appear on the news, rent a helicopter, put up posters.

The idea of a _lost_ poster for Bucky almost makes him laugh. What would he caption it with? _Missing: Best friend turned Soviet assassin. Answers to: ? Can be lured by weapons and shiny things. If found, please contact Captain America. _

Steve rubs a hand over his face. Yeah, he's desperate.

He asks, "Anything else I should do?"

"Take care of the things you can control," Sam murmurs, "because there will be a lot of things you can't, and you've got to start letting those go."

That's never been one of Steve's strengths.

"Okay, then I'll start with apologizing." Steve holds out his hand. "I'm sorry I got angry this morning. It was pretty unkind of me, I know you've just been doing what you think is right."

Sam shakes his hand with an easy smile. "It's all good. I've seen a whole lot worse for a whole lot less. We've got a lead and you're not about to keel over, so I think it's a win-win."

A smile creeps onto Steve's face before he can stop it. "I guess you're right."

* * *

He is coming out of cryo.

He must be. But it seems too soon...

Everything is numb, heavy, cold. His mind is blank, his mouth his dry and sour, and nausea rises thick in his stomach.

Has HYDRA recaptured him? He remembers being on the run... A chill runs down his spine. If that is true, he will be punished severely.

A light voice pierces the room. "Oh, good. He's awake. I said immobilize him, Barton, not _half-kill_ him."

"Well, I didn't _kill-kill_ him. Give me some credit. Hey, Barnes. You with us?"

The male voice is completely foreign, but the female voice pricks something in the back of his head.

They are not any handlers he has ever met. Has he been under so long that the old ones have died again?

"Barnes," the female voice says, hard and sharp. "Wake up. проснуться."

The Soldier snaps to attention, his head jerking up. Restraints hold his arms and legs in place, and all his weapons lay in a pile behind these unfamiliar handlers.

A damp smell hangs in the air, earthy and chilly. Stacks of old furniture and soggy cardboard boxes surround them, a staircase climbs to unknown territory behind them, and the only light comes from a hanging bulb behind the man and the woman.

This is nowhere he's ever been awoken from cryostasis before, and this does not seem to fit HYDRA's patterns. Has he been captured by an enemy side?

He will wait to speak until one of them addresses him.

"Gotta be honest," the man says, "you're not nearly as scary as I thought you'd be. Natasha made it sound like you were like the real-life version of the boogeyman or something."

The Soldier blinks. Nothing here adds up. He is not surrounded by soldiers, or scientists, nor is there any mission briefing taking place.

"Trust me, Clint," the woman says, her eyes narrow. "He can be plenty scary when he needs to be."

He has been called _scary_ before, by men he served missions with. He does not know the word's definition but it has always seemed to have a negative connotation.

The man looks him over. "Yeah, I believe you. So anyway. Talk, Barnes."

Words tumble out before he can stop them. "Who are you? Where are we? You do not behave like my usual handlers. Are you HYDRA?"

The man—Clint?—tips his chair forward on two legs. "We're not HYDRA. We're... Well, we're not really SHIELD either at the moment. You don't remember her? You tried to kill her, like, a week ago."

The Soldier searches the woman's face.

And the past week comes crashing back. He shudders and closes his eyes against the sudden rush of information. For a moment, he almost misses the blankness of before. But then he is grateful. He does not _really _want to be wiped again. Not truly.

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova," James says. "Natasha Romanoff. How is your shoulder?"

Surprise flickers over Romanoff's face, but she conceals it quickly. "Fine." Her tone is cool. "No thanks to you. What do you remember?"

James frowns, looking down. He does not particularly want to answer them. But HYDRA or not, he is at their mercy. And Romanoff is an ally of Steve's...

"I remember everything since they wiped me last," he murmurs, "and I am starting to remember more from when I was Barnes."

"Good." Romanoff's voice is a little gentler. "It's a rocky road getting there. Believe me, I know."

Barton suggests something about "cognitive recalibration" that Romanoff shoots down immediately, and the three of them talk for awhile.

(If it were not for the restraints, it would feel almost friendly.)

And at this rate, James thinks, he will meet everyone Steve knows before he ever sees the man himself.


End file.
